Memos From the Wasteland
Page 2
Rabia’s Diary
IRS Enforcer
20 AW. November (probably)
“The beast was given a mouth to utter proud words and blasphemies and to exercise its authority for forty-two months. It opened its mouth to blaspheme God, and to slander his name and his dwelling place and those who live in heaven. It was given power to wage war against God’s holy people and to conquer them. And it was given authority over every tribe, people, language and nation.”-Revelations.
Moonless night in the cold dustlands had brought fear in the morning. The horizons spoke of no evil, yet we met the sleazy bastards anyways. Indeed, what hope is there for the wicked if the Internal Revenue Service has survived the hatred of fusion that has baked this godforsaken earth?
I was not the first to see them, a fact that eats at my pride and is only true because of the night of wild drinking I had just finished. The caravan’s Shepard will surely remind me of these truths, but he is a geek with too much power and would do well to follow his own advice.
The swine were not on the horizon, because the clever bastards were beneath it. Holed up in a massive prewar bunker built solely to keep the old government’s money counters well and alive. We had nearly set up camp right on top of them. The robbing started almost immediately.
Savage Henry was the first to greet them, and he did so with a heavy loaded magnum .45 to the face. An unknown sniper answered back with a burst of dirty thunder, and Savage Henry finally met his fate before he had any breakfast. Good riddance! The pig was always trying to get into my pants, and it is only because of my “fly swatter” that he did not do so forcibly. He will be missed, I am sure, but after the way he leered at mother and I before she died, there will be no weeping from these eyes.
The only reason that chaos did not erupt then was because too many of us were sleeping, and the ones that were already awake could see that we were surrounded.
"We are from the government," they told us as if that would settle the score. We met them with a savage suspicion and loathing. "We are here for an audit."
Indeed.
And why not? I have seen stranger things in the United Wastes. Weirdos, psychopaths, slavers and cult leaders reign supreme out there. Why not a bureaucratic government agency that did not get the nuclear memo everyone else was rudely handed? Our caravan has survived for this long only because of our stubborn ability to adapt. We learned to shoot at raiders on sight, learned to outgas pirates, and learned to give slavers a wide breadth and to never trade with them. The IRS wants to audit us at gunpoint? Always give the government what it wants, the answer “no” was never an option. So we adapted.
Pencil-necked geeks climbed out of holes like H.G. Wells' Morlocks, carrying clipboards in hand, and armed muscle by their side. To a girl with a hangover, this was more surreal than the blotter acid she ate just days before. Questions were asked, about the nature of our trading, how much we had made in bartering, how many of us there were… all of it rapid fire before we could get our heads straight. When their number crunchers came up with a figure, they demanded that we hand over a percentage of our calories or an equivalent cache of goods of the same value. This was no ordinary robbery. Being one of the few left in the caravan still able to read after mom died, I elected myself to explain to the Shepard what “percentage” meant.
Considering that the last robbery we ran into left half of us dead, this was a pretty good day.
As if the howling madness we had just witnessed was not enough, they then offered their wares for trade. "Most of our taxpayers don't survive the audit," said an IRS agent, looking starkly clean against our dirty selves. "You all seem like fine and good citizens, no reason why we can't open up our stores!" he said amicably. After checking our weapons at the door, we were led down to their first level.
I have never laid my eyes on more wealth and supplies in my life. Food, first aid, books, cigarettes, booze, more booze, bullets and everything else that should be in a young woman’s dowry, and all of it intact.
It was glorious.
The mood of the caravan turned from fear and loathing into jubilee and greed faster than a woman hits a jackpot. We had found the world’s only oasis, and they were hiring.
The IRS agent mentioned it offhandedly, but a detail like that is never thrown out there by a trained salesman for nothing. They had everything they would ever need, more even. What thing of value did we have that was dwindling? Our biggest resource was the one thing they coveted the most: people. The United Wastes is deadly to even the most prepared and armed, and they were going around knocking on trouble's door on purpose.
It would not be a safe life if I left the caravan for their dirty deeds, but what life in this horrible world is? Better to be the one knocking than to be the one with a target on her back. At least here in this concrete paradise they have something called Human Resources (which surprisingly does not mean slaves), a department that can deal with sexual harassment (though the cynic in me doubts this very much)! Maybe I can finally eat somewhere without having to clutch my “flyswatter” close to my breasts.
After spending a lifetime with a predatory gender, it is a strange thing to see that the menfolk here appear to be decent, attractive even. They are clean, hygienic, and polite. The few that I have talked too seemed to be mostly afraid of me, but I would not mind spending some time with a mind that is well read and cares to hear my thoughts. It would be nice to sleep with someone and not have to pay for it.
It would be nice not having to worry about my next meal.
So why not? I have a skill set that they desire, and they have a lot that is desirable too. With mom gone and her Big Rig stolen, what do I have left in this caravan? Routine? That is a comfort that can be replaced, and it is a deadly opiate at that. Everyone and everything worth protecting in this horrible circus are dead or gone. These government geeks can fill my lust for food, drink, and well…lust. It is a done deal in my mind, and good riddance to the festering swine I am leaving behind.
With that settled the pencil-necked geek handed me some paperwork to sign. Cazart! Of course these hole dwellers still hire officially! Forget about the realities of the dead planet above us, this is some mint condition Americana.
Of course, the Shepard was not happy to hear the news. "Who's going to be sheriff?!" he asked in a panic as if it was something that concerned me in any matter.
“Never mind that,” I replied annoyed, “make that ugly kid with the stick do it, he’s a bully, I’m sure he has a natural knack for playing cop.” This did not ease his nerves. Who cares? I’ve signed a contract, soon I will have access to clean water, the only thing that the Shepard could possibly offer to keep me around I stole the moment the bastard’s back was turned (his rather large collection of drugs for his “spirit walking”).
I am my own woman living in a world man destroyed. I will find my own way.
Selah.
-Rabia H. Duke.
20 AW. Maybe February? Who can tell?
“Tax collectors also came to be baptized, and they said to him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He told them, “Collect no more than you are required to.” -Luke.
Blighted winds carry the fragmented bones across the dead land, and a hateful rain threatens to soak the dry land from dirty clouds. There is simply no way a citizen of the United Wastes can ignore the sky. We are always aware of it. The sky tells us how easy, or tedious our plights will be for the day. Yet here, in a federal bunker underground, the sky might as well be a myth. This is the last bastion of civilization in the whole of the irradiated country that we all roam, and fluorescents are king.
Watching the sky is not the only rule in which they ignore. In fact, every lesson that is to be learned above is mostly ignored down here. Even their trading is different. The bunkers of the IRS still hold onto the now defunct currencies of old. Actual hard cash, legal tender, is still used and flourishes here. Up above, the same bills that have value down below are used as toilet paper or kindling for
fires. When you travel down below, you travel back in time.
It is not a perfect metaphor, traveling through time, but it works, and it is true more often than not. People down here talk about the weather for petty small talk and awkward pleasantries, it is nowhere near as serious as a topic as it is above. People down here have clean clothes, women don’t have to be constantly armed, and they use paper money. The first time I was paid in it, I nearly cut the man who had handed it to me, but it is good down here, as good as it was in the past.
The metaphor breaks down here though: all of the bills that they use are worth two dollars. The government got the last laugh. Years before I was born, and years before the world was electrified with the mystical world wide web that the Shepard used to speak of, the United States Government tried to roll out their shiny new two dollar bill to a populace that did not want it. Big agencies can afford to be patient, however, so they stuffed the dirty bastards in saran wrap and hid them away for a rainy day, just in case the apocalypse happened.
It did.
Now the bills are the only currency that still has value, and the citizens that had no time or day for it are gone and have been replaced by ones who have known nothing else. The IRS bunker doesn't just play by different rules than the surface, they played by different rules even when the surface was a place where you could raise a family for the sake of it, and not because you needed something to eat just in case.
Two dollars can get you a lot down here. Hell, it’s the Wares Stores that they have that convinced me to switch hats and play their game. I had a cold the other day and it didn’t kill me. All I had to do was turn in some crisp bills and get water with electrolytes, anorectics, throat lozenges, and even food for comfort. I need to write that last one down one more time: food for comfort, not survival, comfort. I am still not allowed to sleep down here, being an outside contract, but these supplies went a long way as I waited out a fever in the safety of the old garage I found just outside of the city. The cold was not the death of me, and it was the value of the dollar that saved me.
Selah!
-Rabia H. Duke.
Post Apocalyptic Office Politics
Taken from the IRS bunker’s ethernet
>Subject:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: supervisor52@irs.gov
>From:: agentb16@irs.gov
After our last brainstorm meeting on educating taxpayers I wrote and compiled the following pamphlet, which I think can be mailed ahead of our auditing notices. Let me know what you think! The pamphlet is below:
How to Survive a Field Audit in Post-Apocalyptic America.
So, you've been audited, what's next? This can be a very frightening, and stressful thing to deal with, and we understand your concerns completely. But did you know that a Field Audit by the Internal Revenue Service in today's post-nuclear environment is less dangerous than your average daily task out in the United Wastes? It's true! An IRS Field Audit is only lethal to the taxpayer 60% of the time. With low odds like that, compared to the daily foraging and scavenging of food in the irradiated dust plains or the simple act of drinking water without a purifier or a Geiger Meter, an IRS Field Audit is a piece of cake. This free pamphlet will give you all of the information you need to survive the most common interaction you will have with your federal government and will give you tips on how you should proceed!
Why is this happening to me?
Surely this is the most asked question by the average taxpayer (and uttered in other unrelated instances by all of us more than a dozen times since the bombs fell). You may be audited for a number of reasons. There may be discrepancies on your filing that do not match up with our own database, you may have been selected to take part in our National Research Program, or, and this is the most common, you may have failed to file your taxes.
What happens next?
After the IRS mails out a notice that you are going to be audited (disclaimer: failure to receive this notice is squarely on the Post Office, it is not the IRS’s responsibility to keep the United States mail structure running) we will send out a professional Auditor to your place of residence or to your traveling caravan. It is the Auditor’s job to help you correct any discrepancies and to collect any taxes that are unpaid. They will be accompanied by a highly trained Enforcer (a highly armed and trained bodyguard to assure their safety).
How to prepare:
There are a number of steps that you can take to ensure that your auditing session is a quick process and to ensure your survival and safety during it. The first thing that you can do is to gather and organize your paperwork. This can include W-2s, 1099s, bank statements, proof of income, investment statements, or bills and receipts. It is important that you do not lie to your Auditor and to remember that, though your Auditor will not play favorites, that common courtesy will go a long way. If the Enforcer feels that the situation is a dangerous one they will take the swiftest measures necessary to protect their Auditors. As such, it is important that you defuse any traps you might have out on your property, to contain any dogs you might own (either for companionship, protection, food, or all of the above) and to refrain from any sudden movements. Though we recognize that you have a right to bear arms (and that doing so is a necessity in post-nuclear America), we ask that you keep them out of sight or locked up so as not to "irritate" the Enforcer.
The IRS has done its very best to modernize and upgrade our tax collections efforts for the new irradiated age. One of the improvements the IRS has introduced is acknowledging the new barter-based economy that we all live in. Though US currency is still the preferred way to pay your taxes, the IRS has done its best to evolve with the times. As such, calories and bullets (the most common choices for currency) are the most common item used for conversion. Other items of value may be assessed and taken so ask your Auditor what items are worth most as they change on a monthly basis. A few items that have reliably stayed as staples are toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, and other consumable hygiene products. Remember though that at the end of the day how you choose to pay your taxes is up to you, so long as they get paid.
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: agentb16@irs.gov
>From:: supervisor52@irs.gov
I don't mean to sound rude, but the whole purpose of that meeting was to brainstorm educational means because the taxpayers are not receiving notices through the mail. The Post Office has really dropped the ball since the nuclear annihilation kicked off our new age. We need to find ways to reach out to taxpayers without them.
Again, I am not trying to be rude. I actually did enjoy the pamphlet (who says paying taxes can't be fun?) but it does not address the reason we need to educate taxpayers.
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: supervisor52@irs.gov
>From:: agentb16@irs.gov
I don't think the post office failing to do their job is a reason to dismiss my idea! I just want to make it clear that no one asked me to do this, I am trying to go above and beyond and help our bunker and our citizens. I think we both know that too many Auditors lose their lives because the taxpayer was unprepared or misinformed (they think we are raiders!).
Thank you for shooting down my idea, I was just trying to help.
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: agentb16@irs.gov
>From:: supervisor52@irs.gov
Whoa whoa whoa! I am not trying to “shoot down your idea”! Again, I said that I liked your pamphlet, but the post office is not reliable. This has nothing to do with what you wrote and I was honestly not trying to be rude.
And yeah, I am fully aware that auditors lose their lives, that’s why we had the meeting! Please do not insinuate that I am insensitive to that just because I don’t think that mailing out something to fix our undelivered mail problem is a pr
oductive idea.
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: supervisor52@irs.gov
>From:: agentb16@irs.gov
Whatever. This is all just because I get an extra coffee ration for my hard work and you don’t and we both know it. You have always been a bitter bitch about it and now we see your true colors!
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: agentb16@irs.gov
>From:: supervisor52@irs.gov
Wow dude, okay. This has nothing to do with your stupid coffee rations. I’m turning this correspondence into HR, you are way out of line!
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>Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: supervisor52@irs.gov
>From:: agentb16@irs.gov
Go ahead! Whatever.
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>Re::Fwd::Re:: brainstorm follow up
>To:: supervisor52@irs.gov, agentb16@irs.gov
>CC:: henry.boyd@irs.gov
>From:: humanresources@irs.gov